Act LikeYou Mean It
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: A Working Stiffs story - just how do the UNCLE agents adapt themselves to all those different roles?  And what happens when the lines start to blur between reality and acting?


I'm one of those people who believe that good actors aren't made; they're born. Unless you have that spark to begin with, you will never be able to aspire to great acting. You can train to be as good as you can be, but you will never be what we call 'a natural.'

What can I say? My story is about like everyone else's. I came to New York, certain that directors were just standing on the street corner awaiting my arrival - they weren't. I thought that lesser actors would be so in awe of my abilities, they step aside at auditions – they didn't. I thought casting agents would be fighting over me, playwrights would be begging me to read their latest script – hey, denial isn't just a river in Egypt, you know.

After a few months, my savings were gone, and the jobs were not happening. I applied to this tiny little acting school to teach beginning acting – very happy that I had that teaching credential. It was enough to cover the rent and my expenses, barely. As long as nothing unforeseen happened, like a date, I was fine.

So, we were having this little one-act play festival. It wasn't really anything to write home about, but I thought my guys did a good job. After the closing, this little old man approached me and told me that if I ever wearied of my job to give him a call.

It was six months and a raise in my rent later that made me dial that number. Then I was plunged into a world I didn't even know existed – it was like having an entire New York City underground and no one even suspected it was there.

At first, I was confused as to why they would even need an acting coach. That lasted all of about half an hour. That's when I met my first Section Two agent and I realized that a large part of their job was just acting! They had to be able to lie, cheat, and steal. They had to be able to look you dead in the eye and make you believe they were someone else. They had to learn how to play dead or stand motionless for hours. In short, they had to know how to act.

The lucky ones already had some leanings in that direction. Most agents were in actuality frustrated actors anyhow; this just paid better. On the other hand, they faced a crowd that might also kill them at any second. Personally, I preferred boos. Talk about a hostile audience!

Usually I worked with the junior agents as they were just starting out and needed the most help. The senior agents were usually pretty adept at acting. Some, like Solo - hell, that guy, so much of his life was a façade, I don't think even he knew where the acting stopped and the real man began. He'd been putting on an act for so long, I think he'd lost a bit of himself in the process.

I should probably go on record now and say that I teach method acting. Method acting was derived from a style created by Konstantin Stanislavski He pioneered something he called "theatrical truth." Stanislavski developed his system through his friendships with Russia's leading actors, whose work he observed and analyzed; and his own acting and teaching at the Moscow Art Theater.

In Stanislavski's system, actors deeply analyze the motivations and emotions of their characters in order to personify them with psychological realism and emotional authenticity. Using the Method, an actor may recall emotions or sensations from his or her own life and use them to identify with the character being portrayed. It's hard and it requires complete immersion in a character so that no matter what you say or do, it's within character. It also gives you tremendous freedom because, once immersed, you don't have to worry about external forces. This is why I teach it and I think it's the style best suited for agents because it allows them operate more freely.

My days are never the same; I might be instructing a class or doing some one-on-one coaching or reviewing the training tapes of one of the agents prior to their going out into the field. It's kinda fun to think I have the power to keep an agent back from an assignment if I don't think he's giving it his all.

I walked in, whistling, mostly because I knew it drove my office mates crazy and I was all about annoying the crap out of my co-workers – it was a personal creed. I settled down at my desk, got my first sip of truly hideous canteen coffee and started to check for messages. My co-workers like to pay me back for my whistling by hiding them from me. They started it…

"Hey, Jules, the Big Man wants you like half an hour ago." William was one of the few people I didn't try to annoy.

"What's going on?"

"Last night, they brought in this guy… a Nazi – freaky, scary, ripping-the-place-up guy."

Okay now, I'm Jewish and the thought of coming face-to-face with some ancient warmonger didn't make my coffee taste any better… but there was something in William's eyes that was scaring me.

"And…?"

"The guy is Kuryakin's twin! I've seen him and it's the scariest thing ever."

"How is Kuryakin taking this?" The man lived through the Siege of Kiev, he couldn't be overly fond of Germans and to have one who looked like him, that had to be hard to stomach…

"He doesn't know yet; he's on assignment in South America."

"Wait, you said a Nazi? How could he look like Kuryakin? The guy's only 32."

"Waverly thinks the son was made to resemble the father and carry on his work. There were only a couple of photos, but the guy confirmed it. What kind of sicko would have his son surgically made to look like him?"

"What kind of sicko would let his father do that?" I pushed the coffee aside, no longer interested in trying to stomach it. "So why would Waverly want me?"

"Guess they are going to try and send Kuryakin in as a ringer."

"Oh Lord, that has to be the sickest thing I've heard."

"Ours is not to reason why. Waverly wants you to do a character study on this nutcase for Kuryakin when he gets in. You've only got a few hours."

I drew a deep breath and stood up, my stomach tossing my morning bagel and lox around. "This is something I could have done without today. Where are they?"

"Interrogation room three."

That was a relief; there was one-way glass there. I could watch without having to actually be in the room with the guy. And who knows, maybe he wouldn't be that bad…

And he wasn't… he was worse. If I'd been Waverly, I'd never have allowed him to be unbound. The man flung himself out of his chair, raging and arguing with Waverly. I knew armed Section Three agents hovered just beyond the edge of the light, ever vigilant in case this maniac tried anything.

He strode up to the glass and touched it. I'd never seen such hatred, such contempt in anyone's eyes before. I took an involuntary step back, then a leap backwards when he slapped it.

"I grow tired of your questions!"

"I am unconcerned with your boredom, Colonial Nexor. What were you doing there?"

"Vhat do you care?" The voice, so much like Kuryakin's, yet so hard and angry.

"You will answer me."

"I vill tell you nothing!" He was back in the chair now, hands clenching and unclenching…

"I beg to differ with you. I think that you will." Waverly walked from the room and two Section Three goons took his place.

"What? Are you going to beat me? Drug me? I laugh at your pitiful attempts."

I turned away at that point and ticked off the speaker. Even if I feared and had an instant hatred for this man, I had no stomach for violence. I didn't want to see what our guys were going to do to him.

A moment later, Waverly appeared. "So, Mr. Coleman, what do you think?"

"About him? A real nutcase."

"Not very much like our Mr. Kuryakin, is he?" Waverly had pulled out a pipe and was puffing away.

"He looks like him, but that's it. His movements are less fluid, a little jerky."

"Possibly a side effect of the surgical procedures he was made to endure." Waverly walked to the glass and watched. I could see shadows of what was going on and had no desire to see the real thing.

"He will tell us what we want…eventually."

"If you beat him too badly, he won't be of any use to me. I need to know how he moves and acts when he's healthy."

"That's enough, gentlemen." Waverly said into the speaker and clicked it back off. "Come with me."

Damn, I knew he was going to do this. Still I followed him into the room. Nexor was grunting his way to his feet, glaring at Waverly, sneering his defiance. Nope, this guy would die before he'd talk.

"Who are you?" Waverly asked again.

A sigh, heavy with annoyance. "Colonel Maximillian Nexor."

"How is that possible? The man would be his seventies."

"His image lives on in his son."

While Waverly grilled him yet again, I studied the way Nexor carried himself, the tight angry movements, the ticks and twists that tell the casual observer so much. After an hour, I'd had my fill and started to walk away.

"Just a minute…" Waverly's voice stopped me. "Come here, Mr. Coleman."

Nexor's eyes snapped at the name and I knew what he was thinking. I was determined not let him know what I felt or thought.

"So what do you think?" Waverly asked and I shot him a questioning look.

"About what, sir?" There was no way in hell I was going to off load anything now, not with this Nazi bastard in the room.

"Does Mr. Kuryakin pass muster?"

"What?" I glanced over at Nexor and felt my heart stop. It wasn't Nexor now, it was Kuryakin.

"Wait, how the hell did you do that?"

"Do vhat?" In a breath, Nexor had returned.

"Illya?" I looked to Waverly and then back.

"Well, if you are good enough to fool him, then hopefully, you'll be good enough to fool them," Waverly said, patting the blond on his shoulder.

"If I can't, I'm a dead man." It was Illya's voice, softly accented and gentle where Nexor's had been harsh. "And our mission is lost."

With that I was able to actually meet his eyes now, turn his face this way and that. "Your scar needs a little work around the edges."

He nodded wearily and Waverly patted his shoulder again. "You'll leave as soon as you are ready."

The old man walked out, followed by the Section Three boys. I thought about what I'd sort of heard and almost nearly seen.

"Why did you let them beat you?" I asked quietly.

"If Nexor is examined, they will expect to find bruising. The best makeup job can't fake that at close inspection." Illya had found a small mirror and was studying the scar.

"You agents are head cases, all of you." I slapped his hand away. "Where's the spirit gum?"

It was very quiet while I worked to erase the edges of the appliance, made them blend into his skin. It was going to hurt like hell when he peeled it off, but I don't think he was worried about that. Yet, I knew he was worried; I could sense it.

"Illya, what's going on?"

There was a long silence and I thought that maybe he hadn't heard me, then…

"I'm scared, Jules. Always before, there's been a wig to pull off, a face to peel away, but not this time. This man… he murdered, tortured innocents to death, just for Gurnius's pleasure… To save the world, I must become this monster, but what if I can't find my way back? What if this is who I truly am?"

"All the atrocities the Nazis heaped onto your people?"

"And yours." His voice was sorrowful now, as if already accepting his fate and being prepared to live with it.

"And mine. That's not what you are, Illya. You're not doing this for fun. You're not doing this on a whim; you're doing something that no one else can for a reason that's bigger than anyone else can know." I took a breath and smiled. "Besides, Napoleon won't let that happen." I played my trump card. I knew the rumors; we all knew the rumors. They were the same ones that followed all the successful partnerships. The rumors that their commitment wasn't just mental, but physical as well. It didn't matter to me and it shouldn't matter to anyone else. What these guys did was stuff that no sane person would even consider doing; if they got a little happiness on the side, then what the hell.

"Napoleon might not be able to help…" Illya pulled away from me and examined the scar. He sighed, offered me a half smile and spoke. "Tell Waverly I'm ready." He was gone and Nexor was back.

He did make it back, but not without scars. Both of he and Napoleon suffered from this one particular outing. They stopped eating together in the canteen and Waverly assigned them to separate affairs. I began to wonder if maybe Illya had been right all along. Maybe he wasn't coming back from this one. Maybe neither of them were.


End file.
